


Dancing in the Moonlight

by TheLostPocket



Series: Exploits Across Edil-Amarandh [1]
Category: Pellinor - Alison Croggon
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Drunken Shenanigans, Eavesdropping, F/M, Peeping Tom, Sexual Awakening??, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:01:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28058847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLostPocket/pseuds/TheLostPocket
Summary: Set during The Riddle. While still in Busk, Maerad stumbles back to her room after a merry night at the tavern and hears some strange noises coming from Cadvan's rooms. She goes to investigate and gets more than she bargains for. . .
Relationships: Cadvan of Lirigon/Maerad of Pellinor, Cadvan of Lirigon/Nerili of Busk
Series: Exploits Across Edil-Amarandh [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2055378
Comments: 4
Kudos: 4





	1. Go Forth And Be Merry

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, Maerad and Cadvan are in Busk again - or rather, still, since this is set during their first stay on Thorold during the opening chapters of The Riddle. I'm really drawn to Busk as a setting for Cadvan and Maerad. Aside from it being one of the only places (aside from Innail and Norloch) described in rich, loving detail in the series, it's also where so much of import happens between Maerad and Cadvan there. Innail is the first place Maerad thinks of as a home, but Busk is the first place where she feels she fits in and is happy, where she can be herself. Where we see her (and thus she sees herself) as more than just a slave who's snuck into a fancy party. We see a more 'domestic', relaxed side of Cadvan at Busk, also, and as such the relationship between him and Maerad takes on a new flavour. For a while it's been my firm theory that it is in Thorold that Cadvan starts falling in love with Maerad (which, unfortunately, has a disastrous impact, resulting in the near complete break-down of their friendship just before the incident at the Gwalhain Pass). It also doesn't hurt that Thorold is quite clearly modeled on the Mediterranean islands. 
> 
> So, Busk stays. I will attempt to write some things in other (perhaps thus far unvisited) parts of Edil-Amarandh, and am still plugging away at a much longer series focusing on Cadvan. Enjoy, dear Reader!

Maerad burst into her room with a clatter, allowing the door to swing shut behind her as she collapsed directly onto the bed. The soft sheets puffed around her in an excitement of lavender and some salty sea smell, making her smile. It had been another busy, exhausting, alive day in the city of Busk. It had started at dawn with swordsmanship, then back to her rooms for a break-fast so hurried that Maerad did more eating than talking, causing Cadvan in turn to do more teasing than break-fast-ing. Then, while Cadvan had still barely taken three bites of his first meal, Maerad was off again to the First Bard’s private rooms, where she laboured under Nerili’s guidance until the midday meal (and accompanying midday nap). Her typical afternoon lesson with Cadvan had been postponed to make way for some commitment of his own, so Maerad immediately flocked to one of the Barding houses with which she had become familiar, walking in to find the atrium already bustling with several people of her acquaintance. Honas had jumped on Maerad immediately and dragged her out into the garden where, under the shade of a lush orange tree, he schooled her in the basics of his makilon. Maerad learned quickly, and by the time the sun had moved closer to the horizon than not they had managed to fumble through a few simple duets. It had reminded Maerad of when she and Cadvan would play together while travelling; sweet memories that had an air of comfort, of homeliness, about them. At Gilman’s Cot, Maerad had so rarely chanced to play duets. But right there in the garden with Honas and a modest assortment of other lively Bards, she decided she liked them very much, and wrangled Honas into agreeing to another lesson later in the week. It took no great persuasion; Honas was not the only one who noticed how sweet he was on the young Bard of Pellinor. If Maerad noted how he put his arms about her to illustrate how to correctly hold the makilon, or if his hands lingered on hers longer than necessary when adjusting her chord-grip, she said nothing. 

As the sun dipped towards the sea, the makilon was torn from Maerad’s hands and she was dragged from the garden, through the house, and out into the street, where Thoroldians were already drinking and merry-making in masses about the city. Achilos – a young, tall, rather loud-voiced Bard with whom Maerad had no particular acquaintance, but who had joined their party as they left the house – had announced that they were far behind in the evening’s fun, and as such had to work (and drink) doubly as hard to make up the difference. Thus hailed the deluge of what seemed to Maerad’s foggy recollection to be a dizzying quantity of fine, strong red wine. At some point Maerad had become aware that they were in a tavern, although she could neither remember which one nor identify which it might be by the interior. Her vision seemed streaky-fuzzy, her brain a little slower than usual. The effect was far from alarming. All Cadvan’s warnings about the iron livers of the Thoroldians – and the hard-come-by damage-management techniques Maerad had developed for herself to avoid wine-sickness – flew from her head like a scrap of paper in the wind. The goblet before her never dipped below half full before some obliging person would top it up for her, making exclamations about hospitality to guests. Maerad didn’t mind one jot. Soon she was obligingly holding her goblet up to be refilled, even though after a point all the wine started to taste the same, and after a somewhat later point it ceased to taste of wine at all. 

If Maerad thought very hard, she could remember dancing and she could remember falling over, although the recollection was so untainted by the embarrassment or bodily discomfort associated with falling that it hardly seemed like falling over at all. It was merely another step in the dance. Hands would grip her elbows – she would be hauled to her feet – and without hesitation she would spin back onto the dancefloor as if nothing had happened. She could not think how often this had happened, or how many dances she had danced, or indeed anything at all that might indicate how much time had passed. Time seemed then to be a wobbly, flexible concept, more like trickling water than a sequential series of moments. She remembered flashes of faces, but could not connect them to much at all. The faces she knew were greeted warmly. She faces she did not were skimmed over and forgotten, slippery, one nose or pair of eyes morphing into another and another until she hardly knew who she was looking at. 

Maerad _did_ remember how she ended up outside the tavern. After dancing an energetic, leaping number, she had crashed down at the table with her friends to much foot-stomping and chugged the entirety of her goblet of wine, panting. She felt hot and sweaty – and, if she had cared to look, she would have found that she looked it, too. Her throat was sore and dry – had she been yelling? Or perhaps she was merely thirsty? Glancing down, she found that her goblet was yet again full to the brim, and she gulped away at it once more, thinking all the while how funny it was, how she would have sworn that it had just been empty. Oh, well. It wasn’t empty now, and she was so very thirsty. The wine disappeared in moments, and Maerad gasped happily. But it was still so hot. Thoroldian nights in the summer remained balmy well into the black hours, but it was currently the tail end of Autumn. It ought not to be so hot. Maerad looked about her, each movement of her head making her vision swim, and found her eye drawn to the little windows in the tavern door, through which thick silver beams of moonlight shot like arrows. 

_Moonlight_. How cool it looked! And now she concentrated, Maerad could hear the great rushing of the sea beneath the din and chatter of the tavern. Before she even realised what she was doing, the tavern door was swinging shut behind her, muffling the noise that had mere moments ago engulfed her entirely. Out on the quay – for, she thought dimly, on the quay she was – it was peaceful, almost quiet. The ever-present breeze rushing off the sea pushed her damp hair back from her head and cooled the sweat on her throat and brow. Maerad tried to close her eyes and take a deep breath, but found she was unable to remain balanced if she did. So she just stood there, staring out at sea, for an interminable time. 

The tavern door opened again behind her. Hands gripped her shoulders, and she frowned, shrugging them away instinctively before turning to see who had broken into her solitude. It was Honas, his face flushed and her eyes bright with some strange emotion Maerad could not place. He was gazing at her intensely and, for some reason, an image of Cadvan came to Maerad’s mind. She frowned deeper. 

“Ah!” Honas cried good-naturedly “I can see from your face I am an unwelcome intruder. Yet intruder I remain. I wondered where you had gotten to.” 

Maerad, still unable to place his mood, turned back to the sea. His words annoyed her. It seemed to her that he didn’t really have the _right_ to worry about her. 

“The moon is so beautiful tonight.” Maerad said. She found she had to concentrate very hard on the words, and her mouth, in order to make them come out clearly. The thought was not alarming, merely curious. 

“Yes, it is,” Honas returned readily, although his eyes had not left her face “but not half so beautiful as you, Maerad.”

Ah. So that was the mood he was in. Maerad had become a seasoned enough drinker to know that wine took people in different ways. Some became thoughtful and quiet, others loud and merry. Honas became amorous. He attached his big dark eyes on the closest maiden and spent the rest of the evening chasing around her skirts like a lost child, begging for her name, a dance, a kiss. That his wine-fed mooning had of late been mostly directed at Maerad was annoying but not terribly disturbing; for she knew he meant nothing by it and, at any rate, he would not try anything with her. Her confidence in this latter fact had thus far seemed unassailable and, moreover, held mostly true. But not for long. 

Maerad ignored Honas’ comment, shaking her head. She quickly stopped when the quay lurched about her, holding her temples as if it would help stop the spinning. 

“Maerad,” Honas repeated, more firmly “I must confess – truly – that I have long thought you to be the most beautiful woman I have ever met.” Maerad did not see him advance closer to her, but he must have done, because suddenly she was clasped in his arms, his hot breath rushing over her face. It was neither entirely pleasant nor entirely unpleasant. Maerad wished he would go away so that she could turn back to the moon. 

“It would please me beyond anything. . .” he continued passionately, although a little drawlingly “. . . if you would grant me one kiss. Just one kiss, sweet Maerad!” 

Maerad’s mind sluggishly began to register some alarm, although the emotions felt very far away. Mostly, she was confused. She was pressed so firmly against Honas’ body that she could feel all the lumps and pumps of his person; the soft flesh of his chest and stomach, the metal of his belt, and the hard hilt of some weapon digging slightly into her hip. How strange; she had not noticed he was armed before. Casual carrying of weaponry was certainly not common among the people of Busk; in fact, Maerad had been so thoroughly mocked for going everywhere with her longsword that she had come to leave it within her chambers, carrying only a precautionary dagger concealed in her boot.

So caught up in this seemingly answerless conundrum, Maerad did not notice Honas’ face advancing to her own until his lips were practically upon hers. Clumsily, she jolted back, stumbling away with an admonishment on her tongue. But it was unnecessary. Honas, so caught up in his daring act of romantic bravery, had closed his eyes to fully enjoy this, his triumph, the moment his sweetest dreams came true. Now, being Thoroldian, Honas’ veins practically ran with wine-maker’s blood; he was well capable of draining bottles with practically no negative consequences. But, to aid his courage, he had drained somewhat more than just a few bottles, and although his hereditary alcohol tolerance protected him up to a point, that point had been passed some hours ago. Therefore, although he seemed among the more self-possessed of the tavern’s patrons that evening, he was in fact much the worse for drink than Maerad. So, when she had stepped so very suddenly from his arms, Honas’ natural equilibrium fled, and he lost his balance entirely, falling in a tangled heap upon the ground. He groaned and gently struggled to regain his feet. 

Maerad did not offer him her aid. The event was over, and therefore it fled her mind entirely. The suddenness of her own movement had sparked a desire for exertion that was perhaps symptomatic of her own drunkenness. Within the tavern, it had been expressed in tireless, flamboyant dancing. But to venture back within the hot, noisy, crowded tavern seemed an impossibility now that Maerad had felt the cool night air and enjoyed the peaceful Busk streets. So, without even looking down at Honas, who had succeeded in crawling to his hands and knees (but, by the look on his face, seemed stumped as to were to go from there), Maerad turned on her heel and stepped lightly through the Busk streets. 

And then she had found herself in her rooms. She could recall parts of the relatively long walk from the quay to the School of Busk, but mostly in vague, emotion-steeped impressions. Heart-lifting joy at walking alone through the streets, deserted but not abandoned, well-known enough to be familiar but strange enough to carry some sense of mystery, of possibility. A fleeting yet potent loneliness when she took a wrong turn and found herself in a closed-in, lightless square where a dried up old fountain sat, the rim cracked. And through it all came glimpses of the bright silver moon through the gaps between buildings, from which came a great sense of comfort, as if the moon were gazing down on her with the indulgent, protective eye of a parent. 

Maerad turned her head. That moon was shining down on her still, seeping the bed on which Maerad was sprawled with steady silver moonbeams. Maerad wriggled happily, feeling every last muscle in her body flex. It was as if she was swimming in moonlight, anointing herself in it. She lifted her hands and watched her fingers ripple in it, turning them back and forth over and over again in wonder. The moon was so low to the horizon that the light came in at a near-horizontal angle through the windows, so bright that Maerad could read by it, if she wanted to. But she did not want to. She did not want to move. The burst of gleeful energy that had propelled Maerad all the way through the city had drained away as soon as she landed on the bed. There would be time enough for reading tomorrow – or, rather, later today. Not much later, if the angle of the moon were any indication; it would be morning within a few hours. 

With that thought, Maerad turned into her side with the full intention of falling asleep right there and then, fully clothed, and let the consequences be dealt with later. But no sooner had she closed her eyes, but a noise made them fly open again. 

It was faint, far away, and so low that at first Maerad wondered if she had imagined it. She closed her eyes once more, but then after a few long moments the noise came again. Maerad sat up. It sounded like a cry, perhaps from a bird outside. Maerad blinked about and – yes! – she had left the door leading to the patio outside wedged open. No matter. Maerad slid to a stand and padded over towards it. She would close it, and that would keep the over-eager bird from continuing to disturb her rest. 

Maerad had just gripped the handle, ready to slam the door shut and hopefully scare the bird off entirely, when the noise came again, louder and clearer. And this was certainly no bird-cry. And really, what Thoroldian bird sung or cried or made any noise at all at night? No, this was no bird-noise. 

Curiosity overcame Maerad. The wine still thrummed through her body, wrapping her brain in a big blanket and preventing much logical thought from swimming to the surface. Even the possibility of danger did not occur to Maerad. The noise came again, louder and slightly longer, this time joined by another low, quavering note. Without a second thought, Maerad stepped onto the patio and quietly closed the door behind her. The sound came from her left; she followed it, a-tip-toe, and found herself standing outside a set of windows that matched her own. No light came from within, but Maerad still instinctively crouched low, hearing the noise come again. It was much louder now, and there was no mistaking that it was human. Huddling close to the wall, Maerad peeked around a large-leafed plant and peered within. 

The room on the other side matched her own almost identically. It was a bedroom, with a large moonlight-drenched bed dominating most of the space, its white sheets heaped about in a messy tangle. Like in Maerad’s room, the bed was positioned side-on, so that when the user turned to face the right they would see through the windows to the patio and, beyond that, a shimmering blue line where the sea met the horizon. On the far side of the room, the same wardrobe and chest-of-drawers configuration that stood in Maerad’s room was present, but there was a different painting above the chest-of-drawers. It was very odd, like looking at one’s reflection in moving water. The image seen was close enough to what you knew to be recognisable, but then the water would shift and, for a moment, the you looking back would be not-quite-you, a you with a different nose or wider jaw or further-apart eyes. This bedroom was not-quite-Maerad’s-bedroom, familiar and yet strange at once. 

Something moved. Startled, Maerad gasped loudly, then clapped her hand over her mouth. Her eyes fell to the bed, where something was still slowly, rhythmically shuffling. She had thought it empty, occupied only by an unmade heap of ghostly white sheets. But, looking closer, she discerned pale limbs amidst the tufted bedsheet. Then, rising as if materialised from the very air itself, a long arm extended luxuriantly up, fingers stretching in the thick moonbeams, then crashed elegantly back down again. The arm, as it collapsed back onto the mattress, took with it a high ridge of fabric, and all of a sudden two dark-haired heads were revealed, both attached to two tangled, naked bodies. A man and a woman. 

The noise came again, a breathless cry, carried clear as a bell through the open window to where Maerad crouched. It had come from the woman, and as she made the noise, she turned her head towards the window. 

Maerad bit her tongue hard. The woman’s face was scrunched up in an expression of intense pleasure and her thick, dark hair was splayed out in a fan across the pillow in an attitude Maerad had never seen before in her life. But there was no mistaking her. It was Nerili. 

Maerad snapped away from the window, back slamming against the wall. Her heart was hammering in her chest. She couldn’t think properly. She couldn’t even tell what she was feeling or what she ought to do. She could only remain paralysed, one hand still clamped over her mouth, the other fisted within the fabric of her dress. She was shaking. But with what? 

Another long, languishing moan came through the window, this time trailing off into a word. A word that sent a jolt through Maerad’s entire body. A word Maerad recognised. 

“. . . _Cadvan_.”


	2. Remember This?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And on we continue. . . ! Feeling very like the secretary from '10 Things I Hate About You' trying to think of artful synonyms for 'penis'.

_Maerad snapped away from the window, back slamming against the wall. Her heart was hammering in her chest. She couldn’t think properly. She couldn’t even tell what she was feeling or what she ought to do. She could only remain paralysed, one hand still clamped over her mouth, the other fisted within the fabric of her dress. She was shaking. But with what?_

_Another long, languishing moan came through the window, this time trailing off into a word. A word that sent a jolt through Maerad’s entire body. A word Maerad recognised._

_“. . .Cadvan.”_

Maerad turned back to the window, not knowing what she was doing, only that she had to. She had to see. 

She peered closer. Nerili was now writhing gently in the bed, the last of the bedsheets pushed aside, her naked body exposed to the moonlight. Smooth skin stretched thin over lithe muscles, dipping succulently about her breasts and the soft flesh of her hips. Maerad’s eyes lingered on Nerili – then, they strayed further down her body. A man was stretched out at the foot of the bed, so far down that his entire lower half was draped off the end, knees braced against the floor. His hands were firmly clasped around each of Nerili’s soft, open thighs and his head appeared to be nuzzling gently at some spot between them. Maerad stared. She hardly recognised the man – yet at the same time, she felt she did, unmistakably and instantly. While on their travels both she and Cadvan had had occasion to see one another in at least some state of sparse dress, and truth be told Maerad had never given it much undue thought. Cadvan had always been extremely respectful of her privacy in such moments; he only saw what was necessary, say, if tending to an injury. And Maerad had never had any particular interest in that part of him. She hadn’t even thought of him in relation to such acts; the idea seemed almost as incongruous as a fish rising from the sea and flying like a bird. He had always been just Cadvan, her friend, the solid fact of him more than enough to dispel any ideas of him that weren’t immediately evidenced in the him sitting across the fire from Maerad, or riding upon Darsor at her side. It had never occurred to her that the arms so finely wrought and strengthened by swordcraft might have other uses than battle; that the mouth that lectured and teased and admonished her perpetually might just as easily bestow things much sweeter than words. If someone else had told Maerad that they had stumbled across Cadvan in such an act, rather than Maerad witnessing it herself, she would have dismissed them with a laugh and thought no further on it. Now she couldn’t dismiss it. It was right there – he was right there – and she couldn’t look away. 

Nerili tossed her head slightly more violently, her hair flinging across the pillows, and cried Cadvan’s name again, her hand finding his against her outer thigh. Cadvan looked up and uttered something Maerad did not hear, his eyes sparkling with mischief. Nerili laughed and made some reply. Maerad did not listen. Her attention was caught upon Nerili’s hand, now loosely entwined with Cadvan’s. His thumb was rubbing absent circles on the back of her palm. The gesture was so small, so simple, so affectionate, that Maerad’s heart was suddenly filled with longing. Her eyes welled with unexpected tears. How she longed to have someone’s hand to hold! To have someone hold her hand and rub reassuring circles in it! 

Cadvan made a sudden movement. Maerad jumped, briefly afraid she had been discovered. But no, it seemed she was still unnoticed. Cadvan had slid back off the end of the bed and sprung to his feet, where he stood, gazing hungrily down at the bed at Nerili. From where Maerad crouched she had an unconstructed view of him. His chest was heaving, hair thrown into wild disarray about his eyes and shoulders, glistening slightly with sweat. How beautiful he was! The thought drifted through Maerad’s mind unbidden, but once there it could not be ridded. He was beautiful – his pale northerner’s skin was opalescent in the moonlight, glowing as if he were an Elidhu, as if he were Ardina, woven from moon-beams. Every indent of muscle or ridge of scar-tissue was heightened; every dip or furrow upon his sharp face thrown to extreme light or shadow, making him seem a concentrated, distilled version of himself. If someone had sketched Cadvan with blunt sticks of chalk and charcoal, noting not details, only the broad sweeps of his face and figure, Maerad imagined the result would be much like how he appeared right then. With every breath he took Maerad saw the strong muscles of his stomach clench and release, clench and release, clench and release. His chest and stomach was covered with a generous smattering of dark hair. This fuzz grew thicker and darker the lower Maerad’s eyes wandered, until it formed a dense black mass at the groin. From this dense black mass, his member stood erect as a lantern-arm. All of this was noted by some distant, still half-functional part of Maerad’s wine-slogged mind. To Maerad’s own awareness, all she was capable of was gaping thoughtlessly, one hand slipping silently from her mouth to her throat in a gesture of shock. 

Cadvan stood for a good few seconds more, looking down at Nerili, and seemed almost to be making up his mind about something. But Nerili acted first. Responding to some unspoken prompt, she rose from the bed like a goddess rising from the sea, and knelt on the mattress. She held a hand out to Cadvan. 

“Come,” she said, her expression dark with meaning. A small grin formed on Cadvan’s face, a grin Maerad had never seen before. He approached. 

“Oh,” he said quietly “you will.” With that, he took her hand and knelt upon the bed like her. Their lips collided. The kiss was. . . soft. Tender. Slow. It sent a thrill of anticipation through Maerad, although she could not identify it as such. Some part of her knew that what she was doing – watching this – was wrong. Yet that only propelled her to stay all the more. Her curiosity had shifted into something else. She wanted to see what was going to happen, yes – but she was no longer an impartial investigator, as she had been when she had followed the strange noise from her own bedroom. Emotions and sensations, never felt before, surged through her body as she unblinkingly watched Cadvan and Nerili’s kiss grow deeper, more passionate. Cadvan’s hand was now cupping Nerili’s face, now trailing lightly down her neck, her shoulder, her arm. Now dancing lightly about her hip. Now wedged, somehow, between their two bodies, making some movement that Maerad could not see. Nerili’s kisses became more and more interrupted with little gasps, their two bodies rocking together as if they were trying to hold each other up. 

“Cadvan. . . _Cadvan_. . . I. . . I need a – a moment.” Nerili gasped. Cadvan stilled instantly, his head whipping up from here he had been planting kisses on her neck. 

“Is everything alright?” he quickly asked. 

“Yes – wonderful – too good, actually,” she said with a smile “I need a moment or I’ll come too soon. I want – I want us to find our pleasure together, as we used to.” 

A slightly troubled expression flitted across Cadvan’s face. 

“Neri,” he said haltingly “you know that this is not – this I did not intend for this to be –”

How rare it was to see Cadvan lost for words! Amidst all the turmoil of the situation, Maerad had an odd urge to laugh. Fortunately for everyone, Nerili beat her to it. Her clear laugh rang out onto the patio, merry enough but a little too short-lived to hold entirely true. 

“Yes, I know what this is, Cadvan,” she said slyly “I know exactly what this is. And I consent to it fully – but I have such. . .” here, another sigh “. . . such warm memories of our former trysts. I should like to see if Cadvan of Lirigon remains the great lover I knew him once to be. Or are you out of practice?”

“I am undoubtedly so,” Cadvan responded a little dryly. 

“Well, we can remedy that,” Nerili said and, with a wink, she did something rather odd. She turned away from Cadvan and bent over so that she was on all fours, her head facing away from Cadvan. Maerad’s eyebrows scrunched together in confusion – doubtless, she was no authority on these matters, but this did not chime in with anything she had seen or heard of before – but Cadvan’s face took on a new desire. Nerili rocked back and forth slightly – an invitation. Cadvan reached out and clasped her firm, round buttocks in his hands, a slight grunt escaping somewhere in his throat. There seemed to be no need for words; both Cadvan and Nerili knew exactly what to do. Cadvan shuffled forwards until his hips were flush against Nerili’s luscious backside. Then, he slipped himself between her legs and started thrusting his hips forwards and backwards. Looking on, Maerad thought at first that he had entered her the back way, like cows and other farmyard animals, and was briefly overcome with a moment of affront on Nerili’s behalf. She was the First Bard of Busk, a powerful and intelligent woman! She should not be treated like some raggedy old cow! (Maerad had not yet realised that the bestiality of such actions was part of the appeal.). But, on closer inspection – for, unconsciously, Maerad had been leaning closer and closer to the glass – she saw that this was not the case. Cadvan was not thrusting within Nerili but pressing himself between the two mounds of her buttocks. With every forward thrust, Maerad could just see his dark tip poking out from the top, looking darker and darker with every passing thrust. Cadvan, too, was getting darker in the face, which Maerad could only presume meant he was becoming more agitated. More sounds were breaking free from his chest, cries and grunts and moans the like of which cut through Maerad like a knife. The hand that had drifted to her throat now strayed further, coming to rest at Maerad’s breast, where a hard nipple could be felt poking through her dress. Brushing her hand over it brought a surprising zing of pleasure. Maerad did it again. 

“Neri,” Cadvan finally gasped, removing himself entirely from Nerili’s body. At his word, Nerili twisted to her side, taking Cadvan in with a sweeping look. He was breathing hard, knelt back on his feet with his hands grasping his knees firmly. His erection was now a conspicuous, throbbing stick standing up between his legs. Nerili did not pause for any more from him, but shuffled forwards and, pushing his hands from his knees, shifted herself so that she was straddling his lap. 

“Remember this?” Nerili whispered, so softly Maerad wasn’t truly sure she heard. Nerili’s hand reached down between her and Cadvan’s bodies. A beat passed – three people waited, breaths baited – and then Nerili pressed her hips even closer to Cadvan’s. They both let out a sigh, as if of relief. Maerad, unthinkingly, did so also; the fingers that were cupped about one nipple pinched and, without thinking, Maerad rocked her hips, her eyelids flittering slightly. Her other hand, which had been clutching the fabric of her dress as if her life depended on it, drew closer to that thrumming, swollen place between her legs. 

Cadvan and Nerili began to perform a pulsing, regular motion that was somewhere between bouncing and swaying. While they moved, they touched one another, squeezing and pinching bits of flesh, kissing one another’s necks and shoulders and lips. At one point, Cadvan’s hands grabbed Nerili’s hips as if to control them himself. Nerili instantly stopped her pulsing, grabbing his hair within one fist and pulling it back with force. Maerad gasped – surely, she would not hurt Cadvan! – but by the look on his face he was far from upset. Slowly, he removed his hands from her hips and held them up in surrender, grinning. 

“Keep them there,” Nerili hissed, her lips a mere whisper over his chin “until I say otherwise.” 

Cadvan nodded. To Maerad’s shock, he did as commanded. Nerili continued her rocking hips, but not to the steady rhythm they had been maintaining, but alternating irregularly between achingly, agonisingly slow movements and slamming her hips so fast and hard against his that Maerad could hear their damp flesh slap together. And all the while Cadvan kept his hands aloft, although his face contorted into a mask of tortured bliss. Finally, through rasping breaths, Cadvan begged for mercy. Nerili slid off him entirely and stroked his hair as he regained his breath, whispering something his ear which brought about weak laughter. 

This pause didn’t last as long as the last one. Maerad wondered at all this pausing. What was it for? And why, she thought impatiently, did they need to interrupt what seemed to be going to well? Was it normal?

Gradually, they slid together once more and before long Cadvan threw his head back to the sky, mouth open in a silent gasp, his body leaned back. This new positioning seemed to bring Nerili much pleasure; she almost instantly picked up the pace, her soft breasts bouncing on her chest hypnotically. Maerad’s hand was by now rubbing with bind instinct against the mound between her own legs, her hips moving of their own accord. She thought about what she had seen Cadvan do when he and Nerili were kissing on their knees and attempted a similar kind of action; a shy wave of pleasure immediately welled in her abdomen. With a soft breath, Maerad kept going. 

As did Cadvan and Nerili. Although very little had changed in their actual movements, Maerad sensed a new air of purpose. Their concentration on one another was rapidly being chased down by their mounting personal pleasure. Nerili was becoming quieter and Cadvan was becoming louder, Before long it was just his voice grunting and panting in the night, with Nerili’s audible presence reduced to a never-ending flurry of breaths. Maerad’s anticipation grew. She could see – could feel – that something was happening or about to happen. Something momentous. Her own pleasure spiked, her hand moving in time with Cadvan and Maerad. She watched, fascinated, as – with the air of a great wall being broken down – Cadvan leaned back, back, back, until he was fully relined on the bed. There was a brief scuffle while he dragged his long legs from under his own body, laying them out flat, and then they were thrusting together again, Nerili a vision of bare breasts and hips and dark, wild hair in the moonlight. Their movements were becoming more erratic, less synchronised, each being increasingly led by the beat of their own rhythms. Maerad’s heart hammered hard in her chest – she was breathless, poised upon a knife’s edge, waiting, wanting – 

Loud voices called from somewhere not far off. Maerad’s mind, already under-functional from the wine and over-excited from her entertainment, leapt straight to guilt. She jumped to her feet and was dashing back to her own room before she could realise that the voices were not fellow Bards who had caught her nosy indiscretion, but merely the pre-dawn fishing teams setting up for the day’s work below the patio balcony. 

As soon as she broke through the patio door, Maerad flung herself beneath the bedsheets and curled up into a ball, as if hiding from everything she had just seen and felt. Between her own legs, she still felt hot and swollen, but she did not touch it again. She could not even bear to undress – not, now, from pure laziness, but in the knowledge that even such a simple act would remind her of what she had just illicitly witnessed. What had she just witnessed, truly? What had been about to happen? Why did it bring about such a strong reaction within her? And how – _how_ – would she ever look either Cadvan or Nerili in the face again? 

Such dreadful thoughts and worse spiralled through Maerad’s mind until, after not so long a time, the wine finally won over and she fell asleep were she lay, curled up in a tight ball beneath a mountain of bedsheets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 0_0 
> 
> Goodness! There we have it! My aim for these kinds of chapters/content is always torn between being graphic enough for the reader to feel involved (so to speak) but not to be ridiculously explicit. And also to be honest! Once again, although it may not seem like it, i always take into consideration what characters we're dealing with and what they might do in each situation (balancing that out with what i want to happen overall). As previously stated, i think it's clear enough that Nerili and Cadvan have a sexual history, so i wanted this liaison to be familiar, as something between friends, not some passionate clothes-tearing, impulsive thing. But, at this point, Nerili and Cadvan still aren't on the same page as to what happened the first time (the book implied that Cadvan was called away in service of the Light and did a quick vamos, which Nerili still half thinks was a convenient excuse). So things are also a little awkward, with both parties feeling a little uncertain. And sex is awkward! And there are pauses and, considering that i truly don't think Cadvan has got any for. . . a while, it seems a few stop-starts might be reasonable. And throughout all of this, we're viewing it all through Maerad's poor confused-and-drunk-and-kinda-horny eyes. 
> 
> The next chapters will deal a little with the fall-out after this. These are already written and did kind of yet away from me - like 'The Thoroldian Kiss', this was meant to be a steamy one-shot, but I still haven't found a satisfactory place to stop where I feel I've hit all the buttons i want to. So who knows - but the i can say that the next few installments will be a little less adult-rated. Enjoy!


	3. Good Morrow

_Such dreadful thoughts and worse spiralled around Maerad’s mind until, after not so long a time, the wine finally had its way and she fell asleep were she lay, curled up in a tight ball beneath a mountain of bedsheets._

And that was how Cadvan found her later that morning, when the sun was well past risen. Cadvan had been waiting for her at their shared table out on the patio for some thirty minutes, his stomach rumbling all the while. How hungry he was this morning! But then, he was usually hungry after. . . well. . . yes. It was no wonder he hadn’t recalled such small things, considering the amount of time since he had last been intimate with a person. Not that it affected him massively – he had found over the years that he did not quite have the same intensity of urges as some other men-folk, or even other Bards, who tended to be on the more sedate side anyway. It was no great hardship for him to go without. And yet. . . it was no great hardship for him to go _with_ , either. By the Light, he was hungry! But he must wait for Maerad. He enjoyed this little routine they had. While their days often took them off on divergent courses, it was no small pleasure for Cadvan to start and – plans permitting – end each day with Maerad here at this little table, eating delicious food, with a view of the sea. Why, just last night he had been sitting in this very spot, pacing his breaths to the pace of the waves while he waited for Maerad to return from her day. A knock on his patio door had drawn him from meditation, and there was Nerili. She brought with her a message from Maerad – she would be dining with Honas and company this evening – and a trolley laden with dinner for two. Seeing no reason to refuse her, although feeling a little trepidation, Cadvan had let her in and. . . and that had been that, really. In the end, perhaps it was a small blessing that Maerad had been called away by new friendships. 

Where _is_ that girl? Cadvan, losing his patience, went in search of her. At this time she ought to be at the training yard with Jillian, the Arms Master – yet she was not there. Jillian had not seen her all morning. With a hasty apology on behalf of his student, Cadvan had quickly soured any other place she might likely be with no success. He was on the brink of panic when it occurred to him that she might simply have slept late. Maerad was usually very good at getting up at any blasted hour – a deeply ingrained habit from her not-that-distant past as a slave – but it was also not unheard of. Particularly after a merry but damaging night dining – and, inevitably, drinking – with the Thoroldians. While Cadvan saw more and more of Thorold in Maerad each day they remained on the island, she showed no signs of developing their blinding alcohol tolerance. 

He knocked on her door several times to no response, so tried the handle. It as unlocked. He frowned. While it was true that they were about as safe as they could get here in the heart of Thorold, they were still not safe enough to go about leaving doors unlocked. He strode inside, mouth already open to tell her off, and was pulled up short. Maerad’s room, like his, was loosely laid out as a suite of spaces only loosely separated by curtain-covered archways. The largest room, within which Cadvan stood, was a living area, and thus taken up with comfortable chairs and tables and so on. In the far corner, not far from the door that led to the patio, was a book-laden desk. Cadvan approved; it was nice to see the physical proof of her academic progress. Not several months ago, she was a slave-girl who couldn’t read at all, with no notion of Barding or the world beyond Gilman’s Cot. Now, look at her! Tackling tomes the like of which even fully-seasoned Bards would flinch at the sight of. Dernhil would be proud. 

To the right, through a broad archway, was the sleeping space. Cadvan always kept the curtain between his sleeping and living spaces drawn; he didn’t know why. Maerad, however, seemed to have no such habit: Cadvan, a mere few steps into the suite, had an unexpected, unobstructed view of Maerad, abed, curled up and lightly snoring. A tender expression crossed his face. He quietly approached. She was sleeping on her side – Maerad always slept on her side – with her hands clutched in towards her chest and her mouth slightly open, leaving a little puddle of drool on her pillow. None of this was unusual. Cadvan had had innumerable opportunities to study her while she slept while they were on the road, as she had him. Whilst he rarely took such opportunities, when he did he always found the sight of her sleeping to be reassuring. This moment was no exception. 

Cadvan gazed at her softly for a moment longer. Then, he gently shook her shoulder. 

“Maerad. . . Maerad, wake up. . . you’ve missed your morning lesson _and_ breakfast with me. Hem shall be very disappointed in you.”

At the sound of her brother’s name, Maerad’s eyes shot open. And then immediately slammed shut again. With a groan, she turned away from Cadvan, throwing an arm over her eyes for good measure. 

“So, it is as I expected,” Cadvan said lightly, taking a prim seat on the edge of her bed “too much fun last night at the _Mermaid_! It won’t do, Maerad. You cannot miss you lessons for such trivial reasons.” Cadvan intended for his words to sound stern, and stern they sounded. But he did not feel stern. He knew their days of peace here at Busk were numbered, and that they must take every opportunity possible to prepare for what was to come, as did Maerad. And yet, on this fine morning, he could not bring himself to feel truly upset at Maerad. She had had enough for pain for several lifetimes already – let her have at least a little fun. Even if that fun did have some unpleasant consequences. 

“What was that about Hem?” Maerad mumbled, her arm still blocking out the sun. 

“I said he will be disappointed that you missed your morning meal. I wouldn’t put it past him to come all the way from Turbansk just to finish up your unwanted leftovers.” As he spoke, Cadvan rose from the bed and went to the little side table laden with several glasses and a jug of water. He returned with a filled glass. 

“Oh,” Maerad sounded disappointed “I had thought you’d heard news of him. Or from him. Perhaps a letter from Saliman.”

Cadvan shot her a sympathetic look, although she couldn’t see it. 

“No,” he said “but in this case, I think no news is good news.” He held out the glass of water and, when she didn’t notice, tapped her arm lightly. “Here.” 

“Oh! Thank you.” she smiled and took the glass, but before it even got to her lips, she flung it aside and dove under the bedsheets “Cadvan!”

“What?” Cadvan’s eyes shot to every corner of the room, but he saw nothing out of place. 

“Get out! I’m not dressed!” 

Cadvan relaxed. 

“Yes, you are.” 

“No, I’m not! Get out!” 

“I think you’ll find you _are_ dressed. Fully dressed.” Without warning, Cadvan grabbed the bedsheet and whipped it off the bed, leaving Maerad entirely exposed. She jumped to cover herself, peering down at herself in confusion when her hands met thick layers rather than her thin linen nightgown. Sure enough, she was still clad in the clothes she had worn the day before. She even still had her shoes on. 

“Oh,” Maerad murmured, casting a disappointed look down at herself. Cadvan poured her another glass of water, which she once more accepted. 

“I will ask Nerili if she can reschedule your lesson for this afternoon.” Cadvan said “If she agrees, I will oversee your teaching until then. If Neri cannot defer, you will attend your usual lesson as scheduled even if you feel like your head is about to fall of your shoulders and roll across the floor.” 

Maerad blinked. It was an uncanny description of how she currently felt. 

“Either way, I expect to see you dressed – in _fresh clothes_ – and ready by my return.” 

At Maerad’s meek agreement, Cadvan departed. It was a short distance to Neri’s personal rooms – the most likely place to find her at this time of day – and, not for the first time, Cadvan wondered if that was by design. There were a great many guest rooms in the School of Busk, and yet he (and his student) had been placed in the string that were barely a stone’s throw from where Neri resided. Considering this, Cadvan chewed over it for a time then did has he had each of the other times this thought had occurred to him: he pressed his lips together and decided not to ask. No good would come of it. And, in the end, if she had done so deliberately, it had come to the intended result. 

Neri promptly called for his admittance when he knocked on her door. A pleased, surprised look crossed her face when he entered. She had clearly just finished bathing; her hair was damp and she wore a long, silver robe which covered her from collarbone to ankle yet still seemed revealing somhow. As always, she looked fiercely beautiful. 

“Cadvan.” she said happily, although she did not approach him. 

“Good morrow, Neri.” Cadvan’s greeting was not precisely awkwardly, but nor was it entirely easeful either. 

“I did not expect to see you so. . . so soon.” 

“Yes, well, I’m afraid I must ask you a favour.” He said. Neri’s eyes sparkled. She took a step closer. 

“A favour?” she repeated “I have not much time – I expect Maerad here in twenty minutes – so any _favours_ you ask will have to take that into consideration.” 

“Ah – it is precisely that about which I have come to speak to you. Is it possible to rearrange Maerad’s lesson for later this afternoon?”

A brief flash of disappointment crossed Nerili’s features, swiftly covered up by cool consideration. 

“Not this afternoon, but this evening I can do. I can have the lesson with Maerad and then she and you could dine with me. If that is acceptable?” 

“Excellent,” Cadvan grinned “you are generous as always. Thank you, Neri. I look forwards to it!” Cadvan stepped forwards, kissed her hand, and was already on his way out the door when Nerili’s voice stopped him. 

“So that’s it, is it?” she asked. Her voice was very quiet, but not weak. When he turned, she was looking at him with steady, clear eyes. “Just like last time.”

Cadvan’s smile softened but did not fade. “You knew how it would be. How it’s always been.” 

Nerili was silent for a moment. Then she let out a breath, her shoulders sagging. 

“Yes,” she said with a tired smile “you’re right. I did. We both did.”

Cadvan smiled slightly back at her and, on impulse, strode up and placed a kiss upon her brow. Her eyelids batted closed as his lips met her skin – and then they were gone, and Cadvan with them, and Nerili’s eyes were open once more, her smile broader. There would always be a question mark around Cadvan, Nerili thought. Always a _what if?_ But also a certain kind of love – more than that between friends or siblings, but perhaps not quite that of dedicated lovers either. At least, not on Cadvan’s part, and Nerili was not foolish enough to allow herself to love a man whose heart was so hopelessly out of reach. She would never allow Cadvan to claim her whole heart upon the simple suspicion that he would not be able make a return in equal measure; that he was damaged in some fundamental way, and no other could mend that wound for him. 

“How we cling to these familiar aches,” Nerili sighed to herself, staring at the closed door thoughtfully as her wet hair dripped onto her robe, staining it black where the water hit. 


	4. A Test?

Cadvan wound his way back through the corridors under a cloud of thoughtfulness. He bypassed Maerad’s rooms and went straight for his own, picking up a few things scattered about, before slipping out onto the patio. The sun was still fairly low in the sky, but the sea laid out before him glittered dazzlingly, speckled with brightly-painted fishing boats and the odd miniscule pleasure dipper. Cadvan took in the view but did not pause, treading straight towards Maerad’s patio door. A slight fluttering motion in the corner of his eye stopped him, and he turned towards the large balcony which arced between their two doors. There, sitting rather penitently at their little table out on the patio, was Maerad. The movement that had caught his eye had come from her – she had crossed one leg over the other and shifted a little in her chair, her shoulders slumping slightly to one side as they often did. He could identify Maerad from an anonymous line-up of hundreds by the shift of her shoulders alone. Without realising, Cadvan’s furrowed brow smoothed, and a smile tipped the corners of his lips. As commanded, Maerad had changed into fresh clothes – today, a rather becoming purple tunic with wide, elbow-length sleeves and a body that buttoned at either side. It was a Thoroldian style of tunic worn widely about the Island by men and women alike, to be worn layered or alone to suit the weather. Beneath the tunic, where the draping tail of the upper garment folded away over Maerad’s crossed knees, a pair legs clad in sea-blue trousers poked out, matching the long sleeves of her under-shirt. With her native garb and her black hair, bound in a damp plait down her back, she looked the very image of a true Thoroldian – in all but one aspect. Pulled firmly atop her head was an immense, floppy, straw-woven hat which cast the entirety of her head and shoulders into shadow. A precaution many Thoroldians took in the height of the summer months, but few bothered with now, in the autumn. Cadvan approached her, unnoticed, and tugged at the broad rim of the hat teasingly. 

“What’s this?” he quipped. Maerad turned her face to him, the big hat flopping about with each tiny movement, and scrunched her nose up at him. 

“It’s bright out,” Maerad said, a little defiantly. The effect was entirely marred by her own guilty look. She turned her head down again, retreating once more under the shade of her hat. Cadvan settled into the seat opposite her. It _was_ bright out, although Cadvan suspected he was currently a little less sensitive to the light than Maerad. No weak, watery pre-winter light today, not on Thorold. If it weren’t for the slight chill in the air, it would be easy to imagine this a calm spring morning. 

“Nerili has agreed to postpone your lesson. You will go to her rooms this evening at six, take your lesson, then I will join you both there for what will no doubt be a delicious, lively dinner.”

No response from Maerad. She kept fiddling with a button on her tunic, eyes fixed on her bouncing foot. The distant rush of the waves filled the space between them with gentle, comforting noise. 

“Have you eaten?” Cadvan asked after a pause, glancing again at Maerad. At just the mention of food, Maerad squirmed, one hand rubbing her stomach. She looked as if she had just tasted something bitter. 

“No,” was all she answered, frowning. Cadvan let out a bark of laughter, to which Maerad’s frown deepened. 

“I hope you had plenty of fun last night,” Cadvan grinned “to make your suffering this morning worth it.” 

“Oh, yes,” Maerad responded a little more energetically “I went to the tavern with Kabeka and Honas and, well, you know the ones.”

“I’m glad you’re making friends.” Cadvan smiled indulgently “Which tavern did you make rich with your endless wine orders? _The Copper Mermaid_ , yes?” 

“I. . . well, we. . . erm. . .” Maerad’s frown returned “I can’t really remember.” 

“So it was _that_ kind of evening,” Cadvan laughed, leaning forwards with glee “very well, what else did the wild girl from across the sea get up to last night? Dancing through the streets under the moonlight? Swimming in street-fountains? Is there any wine left in Busk this morn?” 

Maerad shifted, his teasing making her uncomfortable for some reason. In fact, this morning, it seemed everything Cadvan did or said made her uncomfortable. Ever since he had woken her up that morning, fuzzy-headed and unsteady, she had hardly been able to look him in the eye. She couldn’t think of any reason at all for this sudden disquiet. 

Cadvan watched Maerad, expecting some rejoinder or perhaps an ecstatic account of her evening’s activities. On the few occasions that she went out without him, Maerad usually enjoyed telling him of what she had done and who she had seen and what she had discovered the next day. He could see as clearly as if he felt it himself the shining, fresh joy it was to her to be able to laugh and dance and joke with contemporaries – friends – of her own age. But no come-back, no laughter-filled story, came. 

“Maerad?” concern crept into Cadvan’s voice. His eyes were fixed keenly on her. She was worrying her lip with her teeth, looking out at the sea, a hand still resting on her rolling stomach. 

“I can’t. . .” she murmured “I can’t remember much. But there’s something. . .” Maerad trailed off. An image had flitted through her mind, dreamlike. Two hands clasped together, bathed in blue-silver light, seen as if from a short distance. One person’s thumb rubbed gentle circles onto the back of the other hand, their fingers softly entwined. Such a strange, inconspicuous memory, yet it seemed so _important_. Maerad cast her mind back to the rest of the evening, trying to remember; the warm, flickering light in the tavern; Achilos going to fill her glass and spilling the wine onto the table; spinning, spinning, spinning, never-ending, breathless spinning; hands clasped about her shoulders, damp and sweaty, and hot breath fanning over her face. But they were all so blurry, so distorted, and seemed to slip away as soon as she conjured them. Yet these hands clutched to one another, glowing pale, was clear as a drawn picture in Maerad’s mind. Just those two hands. Why? Who did they belong to? 

“Did something happen?” Cadvan asked calmly. His eyes were sharp. He had his suspicions about certain parts of her history – things she had not voiced but which he guessed at anyway. Maerad shook her head, as if shaking something from her ears. 

“Yes.” she murmured “No. I’m not. . . I think so. But not something bad. Something. . .” again, Maerad’s words failed her. _Something beautiful_. And Cadvan, seeing something in her eyes, relaxed. 

“Well,” he said, “then you must brace yourself now for something bad.” And he bent down, retrieving the small stack of books he had brought from his room and slamming them onto the table. Maerad flinched. “Your morning lessons.” 

“I’m to read these?” Maerad peered at the books then, her old curiosity overcoming her declining nausea, grabbed one of them. It was a green-bound book on ancient runes and languages, the raised gold lettering on the spine shining in the sun. From the index, she found she was familiar with some of the contents but far from all. 

“No,” he said “I shall read these. Aloud, to you. And you will translate what I say back to me.”

Maerad slumped. “A test?” 

“Yes, a test.” 

“But what about the runic languages.” 

“We’ll cover those later. For now, we’ll focus on Golondian, Old Erekba and Ancient Zarzhi. That should keep us occupied until the midday meal.” 

Maerad still frowned at the mention of food, but did not clutch at her stomach as she had before. A good sign. 

“What of modern languages?” she asked, “Surely it would be useful for me to speak tongues still widely used around Edil-Amarandh?” 

“Certainly,” Cadvan nodded “and, if you were a normal Bard and we had the full luxury of time, you would learn the most common languages of Edil-Amarandh as a matter of course – Suderainian, for example, which I imagine is being drummed into young Hem’s brain as we speak.” 

“Hem?” As always, Maerad’s attention perked just a little keener when her brother was mentioned “Hem will be learning Suderainian?” 

“I should think so,” Cadvan said “they teach in Suderainian at the School of Turbansk. He’ll have to pick it up quickly if he wants to learn.” At Maerad’s alarmed look, Cadvan was quick to reassure. “Don’t fret! Saliman will help him, and before you know it, he’ll be as firm-worded to the people to Turbansk as he is to the people of Annar.” 

Maerad snorted. It was hard to choose whether that was a good thing or not. Nonetheless, the thought of Hem learning these wonderful things without her – off at another School on the far side of Edil-Amarandh, so far from her, experiencing things she could not – filled her with a cruel mix of emotions. Pride. Jealousy. Longing. Protectiveness. Love. The sea blurred before her eyes. A tear trickled from her eye. How she missed him. 

“By rights, he should also be learning Pilanel,” Cadvan continued, as if he did not notice Maerad’s upset “you both should.”

“The Pilanel have their own tongue?” 

“Naturally! The root of their civilisation stems from far further back than we can possibly hope to track. Certainly, further back than the first settlers on this side of the Osidh Elanor. Many of the ancient languages you are currently learning stem from somewhere in the vast ice-planes of Zmarkan.” 

“Pilanel,” Maerad murmured to herself “do you know any Pilanel?” 

“Some,” Cadvan nodded, which Maerad took to mean he was well-versed in it. 

“Would you teach me?” 

“No.” 

Maerad slumped. She opened her mouth to object. 

“You are learning ancient languages and runes,” Cadvan said firmly, tapping the waiting book pile pointedly “not modern spoken tongues. The Ancient ways will be more likely to serve you in your current quest to discover and decipher the Treesong. For the sake of practicality, it is sufficient that you speak Annaeran and The Speech.” 

And with that, Cadvan held out his hand expectantly. Maerad, knowing objection was futile, slammed the great, green-bound book shut and passed it awkwardly to him. She thought about what Cadvan said, about how Hem, and thus she, too, ought to have been taught Pilanel. Would their father have taught them from infancy? Had he held them in his arms as babies and cooed to them in his own mother tongue, speaking Pilanel endearments that neither of his children would remember? Would she and Hem have grown up speaking any number of languages, knowing any number of things, just as a matter of course? As their birth-right? 

The weight of the book lifted from Maerad’s hands; another weight replaced it. Cadvan had grasped her hand, now empty, with his own. Startled, Maerad lifted her gaze to meet his for the first time that morning. He was looking across the table at her with a soft, understanding expression. Unexpected. Another tear dribbled down her cheek. She averted her eyes, looking instead at their hands, laid together on the strange wrought-metal surface of the table. Cadvan’s larger hand covered hers entirely, pale, long-fingered, and battered. Strong. His thumb rubbed soothing circles into the back of her palm. 

A memory flashed through Maerad’s mind. With a hiss, she snatched her hand away. Cadvan stared. A shocked, almost horrified, expression had crossed her face. Cadvan was so taken aback by her reaction that he could think of nothing to say. Their relationship was far from physical, but they neither of them were missish about exchanging the odd reassuring touch. Maerad had never flinched away before. 

“Shall we get on?” Maerad said quickly, once more looking everywhere but at Cadvan. 

After only slight hesitation, Cadvan drew back into his chair, reopened the book, and the lesson commenced. After a while, Maerad also relaxed in her chair. Cadvan did not attempt any other gesture of affection, physical or verbal. His mind whirred. He sensed that for some reason, on this one occasion, he had crossed some line he had not known was there. He did not know why, and did not ask. If she wished to tell him, she would. But that did not keep some part of him wondering and, secretly – so secretly even he did not acknowledge it – being hurt by her withdrawal. 

For Maerad’s part, her action had been instinctive, enacted without conscious thought, and understood it no more by her than it was by Cadvan. She wondered over it throughout their lesson and the remainder of the day to no avail. At no point did it occur to her to link Cadvan’s innocent gesture and her one clear memory from the night before. The two moments existed entirely separately within her, and would remain so until another moonlit night many, many months into the future, when Cadvan’s hand would clasp hers in a way so very similar yet so very, very different. . .

**Author's Note:**

> Well, well, Maerad's evening is going rather unexpectedly - and it's about to get a lot more exciting!
> 
> Time for a quick disclaimer: in this fic I have Maerad and Cadvan acting so out of character that it almost makes me a little uncomfortable. I almost wanna call it an AU to account for the changes I'm forcing on these two poor, lovely people. Because, quite frankly, none of this would happen - and we know this because in The Riddle, none of it did happen. Nerili would not go knocking at Cadvan's door for a booty call because (in the book) she didn't (and i suspect she was actually holding a bit of a i'm-pissed-at-you-but-you're-still-a-good-guy-damn-you grudge, entirely understandably. Cadvan, I suspect, would be unlikely accept Nerili's offer for a friendly fuck due to their history. And Maerad would definitely not sneak outside the window to watch then and have a little X-rated hallelujah moment for reasons that are very apparent (and which i touched on in my unrelated short series 'Of Love and Lovemaking'). I feel a bit like a child forcing their barbie dolls to kiss even though THEY'RE NOT READY (and they're, you know, plastic). 
> 
> BUT i asked myself 'hey, but what if' and this fic happened. So, with that in mind, delve on, dear Reader, and enjoy yet another work of self-indulgent nonsense from me.


End file.
